Martin Chuzzlewit. Чарльз Диккенс
of his fair charge had hardly lifted his eyes from the ground.
The perfect silence which ensued upon the bustle and departure of the coach, together with the sharp air of the wintry afternoon, roused them both at the same time. They turned, as by mutual consent, and moved off arm-in-arm.
‘How melancholy you are!’ said Tom; ‘what is the matter?’
‘Nothing worth speaking of,’ said Martin. ‘Very little more than was the matter yesterday, and much more, I hope, than will be the matter to-morrow. I’m out of spirits, Pinch.’
‘Well,’ cried Tom, ‘now do you know I am in capital spirits today, and scarcely ever felt more disposed to be good company. It was a very kind thing in your predecessor, John, to write to me, was it not?’
‘Why, yes,’ said Martin carelessly; ‘I should have thought he would have had enough to do to enjoy himself, without thinking of you, Pinch.’
‘Just what I felt to be so very likely,’ Tom rejoined; ‘but no, he keeps his word, and says, “My dear Pinch, I often think of you,” and all sorts of kind and considerate things of that description.’
‘He must be a devilish good-natured fellow,’ said Martin, somewhat peevishly: ‘because he can’t mean that, you know.’
‘I don’t suppose he can, eh?’ said Tom, looking wistfully in his companion’s face. ‘He says so to please me, you think?’
‘Why, is it likely,’ rejoined Martin, with greater earnestness, ‘that a young man newly escaped from this kennel of a place, and fresh to all the delights of being his own master in London, can have much leisure or inclination to think favourably of anything or anybody he has left behind him here? I put it to you, Pinch, is it natural?’
After a short reflection, Mr Pinch replied, in a more subdued tone, that to be sure it was unreasonable to expect any such thing, and that he had no doubt Martin knew best.
‘Of course I know best,’ Martin observed.
‘Yes, I feel that,’ said Mr Pinch mildly. ‘I said so.’ And when he had made this rejoinder, they fell into a blank silence again, which lasted until they reached home; by which time it was dark.
Now, Miss Charity Pecksniff, in consideration of the inconvenience of carrying them with her in the coach, and the impossibility of preserving them by artificial means until the family’s return, had set forth, in a couple of plates, the fragments of yesterday’s feast. In virtue of which liberal arrangement, they had the happiness to find awaiting them in the parlour two chaotic heaps of the remains of last night’s pleasure, consisting of certain filmy bits of oranges, some mummied sandwiches, various disrupted masses of the geological cake, and several entire captain’s biscuits. That choice liquor in which to steep these dainties might not be wanting, the remains of the two bottles of currant wine had been poured together and corked with a curl-paper; so that every material was at hand for making quite a heavy night of it.
Martin Chuzzlewit beheld these roystering preparations with infinite contempt, and stirring the fire into a blaze (to the great destruction of Mr Pecksniff’s coals), sat moodily down before it, in the most comfortable chair he could find. That he might the better squeeze himself into the small corner that was left for him, Mr Pinch took up his position on Miss Mercy Pecksniff’s stool, and setting his glass down upon the hearthrug and putting his plate upon his knees, began to enjoy himself.
If Diogenes coming to life again could have rolled himself, tub and all, into Mr Pecksniff’s parlour and could have seen Tom Pinch as he sat on Mercy Pecksniff’s stool with his plate and glass before him he could not have faced it out, though in his surliest mood, but must have smiled good-temperedly. The perfect and entire satisfaction of Tom; his surpassing appreciation of the husky sandwiches, which crumbled in his mouth like saw-dust; the unspeakable relish with which he swallowed the thin wine by drops, and smacked his lips, as though it were so rich and generous that to lose an atom of its fruity flavour were a sin; the look with which he paused sometimes, with his glass in his hand, proposing silent toasts to himself; and the anxious shade that came upon his contented face when, after wandering round the room, exulting in its uninvaded snugness, his glance encountered the dull brow of his companion; no cynic in the world, though in his hatred of its men a very griffin, could have withstood these things in Thomas Pinch.
Some men would have slapped him on the back, and pledged him in a bumper of the currant wine, though it had been the sharpest vinegar – aye, and liked its flavour too; some would have seized him by his honest hand, and thanked him for the lesson that his simple nature taught them. Some would have laughed with, and others would have laughed at him; of which last class was Martin Chuzzlewit, who, unable to restrain himself, at last laughed loud and long.
‘That’s right,’ said Tom, nodding approvingly. ‘Cheer up! That’s capital!’
At which encouragement young Martin laughed again; and said, as soon as he had breath and gravity enough:
‘I never saw such a fellow as you are, Pinch.’
‘Didn’t you though?’ said Tom. ‘Well, it’s very likely you do find me strange, because I have hardly seen anything of the world, and you have seen a good deal I dare say?’
‘Pretty well for my time of life,’ rejoined Martin, drawing his chair still nearer to the fire, and spreading his feet out on the fender. ‘Deuce take it, I must talk openly to somebody. I’ll talk openly to you, Pinch.’
‘Do!’ said Tom. ‘I shall take it as being very friendly of you,’
‘I’m not in your way, am I?’ inquired Martin, glancing down at Mr Pinch, who was by this time looking at the fire over his leg.
‘Not at all!’ cried Tom.
‘You must know then, to make short of a long story,’ said Martin, beginning with a kind of effort, as if the revelation were not agreeable to him; ‘that I have been bred up from childhood with great expectations, and have always been taught to believe that I should be, one day, very rich. So I should have been, but for certain brief reasons which I am going to tell you, and which have led to my being disinherited.’
‘By your father?’ inquired Mr Pinch, with open eyes.
‘By my grandfather. I have had no parents these many years. Scarcely within my remembrance.’
‘Neither have I,’ said Tom, touching the young man’s hand with his own and timidly withdrawing it again. ‘Dear me!’
‘Why, as to that, you know, Pinch,’ pursued the other, stirring the fire again, and speaking in his rapid, off-hand way; ‘it’s all very right and proper to be fond of parents when we have them, and to bear them in remembrance after they’re dead, if you have ever known anything of them. But as I never did know anything about mine personally, you know, why, I can’t be expected to be very sentimental about ‘em. And I am not; that’s the truth.’
Mr Pinch was just then looking thoughtfully at the bars. But on his companion pausing in this place, he started, and said ‘Oh! of course’ – and composed himself to listen again.
‘In a word,’ said Martin, ‘I have been bred and reared all my life by this grandfather of whom I have just spoken. Now, he has a great many good points – there is no doubt about that; I’ll not disguise the fact from you – but he has two very great faults, which are the staple of his bad side. In the first place, he has the most confirmed obstinacy of character you ever met with in any human creature. In the second, he is most abominably selfish.’
‘Is he indeed?’ cried Tom.
‘In those two respects,’ returned the other, ‘there never was such a man. I have often heard from those who know, that they have been, time out of mind, the failings of our family; and I believe there’s some truth in it. But I can’t say of my own knowledge. All I have to do, you know, is to be very thankful that they haven’t descended to me, and, to be very careful that I don’t contract ‘em.’
‘To be sure,’ said Mr Pinch. ‘Very proper.’
‘Well, sir,’ resumed